In the Heart of Trump Country

West Virginia used to vote solidly Democratic. Now it belongs to Trump. What happened?

One Logan County mayor made it known to Hillary Clinton’s campaign that she wasn’t welcome and shouldn’t come.

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

The Hillary-for-prison sign outside Mine Lifeline on Main Street was so enormous that it attracted attention, even though its message was so ordinary in Logan County, West Virginia, that the sign seemed festive rather than threatening. People driving by often stopped and took selfies in front of its photograph of a peeved-looking Clinton behind bars. Rick Abraham, who founded the mine-safety company, and had put up the sign, was delighted by the response. He thought he might construct a three-dimensional prison with Hillary in it, if he could find the time. He would put it on the roof of his building, which would be nicely theatrical, although bad for selfies. “The Clinton Foundation pay for play—it’s obvious!” he said. “She’s a criminal, she should be in jail! If I had done that, I would be in jail. She knowingly put all that information on a private server to shield it from FOIA. Deleting those e-mails—how can that not be obstruction? And using her BlackBerry in the Kremlin? She just has a total disregard for everybody. They’re the Clintons! They’re crooks!”

Abraham had also planted a Trump billboard outside his business—this, although even larger than the Hillary sign, was so common a sight that it barely registered—and he was in some ways an emblematic Trump voter: a white Protestant man in the dying coal industry in southern West Virginia, which is one of the parts of the country most deeply and unshakably loyal to Trump, and most deeply and unshakably hostile to Clinton and President Obama. In Logan County’s Democratic primary in 2012, Obama was soundly defeated by Keith Judd, a Texas felon serving a seventeen-and-a-half-year sentence for extortion. The mayor of the city of Logan (pop. 1,649) recently made it known to Clinton’s campaign that she was not welcome and should not come. Like most West Virginians, Rick Abraham was angry with the President for hastening the decline of the coal industry with what he regarded as excessive environmental regulation. Like most Trump voters, he considered Obamacare a scourge, and since he selects insurance policies for Mine Lifeline’s forty-odd employees he could argue in detail that nearly everyone in his company was worse off than before.

And yet in other ways he is not the Appalachian Trump voter as many people elsewhere imagine him—ignorant, racist, appalled by the idea of a female President or a black President, suspicious and frightened of immigrants and Muslims, with a threatened job or no job at all, addicted to OxyContin. Those voters exist, but the political thinking of many others in Trump country is more ambivalent and complicated and non-inevitable than is apparent from signs hung on Main Street or carried at rallies. The perception that people in West Virginia are voting for Trump because they are racist or ignorant is significant, though, since it’s one of the reasons they’re voting for Trump in the first place. “When people talk about Trump, they talk about how they don’t like the establishment or the élites,” Charles Keeney, a history professor at Southern West Virginia Community and Technical College, in Logan County, says. “When they say that, they mean who they see on television—they envision people in New York City making fun of them and calling them stupid. Every time you leave the state, you get it—someone will say, Oh, you’re from West Virginia, do you date your cousin? Wow, you have shoes, wow you have teeth, are you sure you’re from West Virginia? So when they see that the media élite is driven out of their mind at the success of Donald Trump it makes them want to root for him. It’s like giving the middle finger to the rest of the country.”

Another important factor is immigration, but not for economic reasons. In West Virginia, there are practically no immigrants. But Trump has promoted the idea that someone who cares about the fate of people new to the country must care less about those who have been here longer—and this idea resonates among people who believe that the rest of the country doesn’t care about them at all, and doesn’t see them as kin. When Clinton talks about Trump voters, she tends to divide them into two categories: bigots (her “basket of deplorables”) and people suffering from economic hardship. What’s missing from Clinton’s two categories is a third sort of person, who doesn’t want to think of himself as racist, but who feels that strong borders describe a home. There are many such people, and not just in West Virginia.

Trump was not Rick Abraham’s first choice among the Republican candidates. His first choice was Carly Fiorina: he thought she sounded like a better businessperson than Trump, and he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t doing better in the polls. But after a while he acknowledged that it seemed he was the only one who liked her, so he started donating to his second choice, Ben Carson. He liked Carson because he thought he was smart and honest, although he was worried by how little Carson seemed to know about foreign policy. During the primary season, Abraham and his wife would watch the Republican debates on television, and his wife would get up and leave the room because she couldn’t stand watching Trump. Abraham sometimes couldn’t stand him, either—he found him pompous and arrogant. But he thought that was a strategy, and it worked, after all: he eliminated sixteen other candidates and won the nomination.

Abraham saw Trump’s more extreme pronouncements as bargaining positions. Trump was a negotiator: if he wanted to buy a building for twenty million dollars, he wouldn’t go to the table offering twenty—he would offer ten, or five. So when he talked about building a wall and throwing eleven million people out of the country, Abraham figured he was just making an aggressive first offer, and after some negotiating he would end up with something reasonable. Abraham didn’t think it was possible or desirable to throw out immigrants who were already here (except felons), but he did think it was necessary to establish an effective border.

He agreed with Trump that you had to vet Muslims carefully in order to keep out terrorists, and he thought that America should not accept Muslims who didn’t want to learn English and become a part of American life. “Political correctness is destroying the country, because we’re not assimilating into a common society,” he says. “I was in Union Station in Chicago a while back, and I saw someone, I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman. It was shaped like a Christmas tree. It was a black robe that did not expose the arms or feet, it touched the ground and it came to a point up top and it had the screen and it was leaned against a wall. I don’t know if that’s some guy with an AK-47—I don’t know what it is! Now, if you say to her, ‘In this country, you have to be seen so we can tell who you are,’ she’ll say, ‘You’re violating my religion, my culture wears a veil.’ Where does it stop?”

Abraham describes himself as an American of Arab descent—both his grandfathers were born in Sultan Yacoub, a town that is now in Lebanon but was then part of Ottoman Syria. His paternal grandfather immigrated to America as a child; his name when he arrived was Abraham Dewud, but the immigration officers told him that his name was now Joe Abraham. He hadn’t been in West Virginia long before he signed up to fight for America during the First World War. He was a Muslim who never smoked or drank or ate pork. He married a local Christian woman and then, after she died, a Muslim. There were no mosques anywhere nearby, but he practiced his faith as best he could for the rest of his life.

Abraham’s maternal grandfather came from a family of Syrian Bedouins. When he was eleven, in 1907, his parents put him on a ship headed for New York by way of Marseilles. He picked sugar beets in Michigan for a while, and then, in the nineteen-twenties, when the coal fields in West Virginia were booming, he moved down there and started peddling in the coal camps, selling pots and pans out of a wagon. In time, he opened up a grocery store. He married a Christian girl from Gilbert Creek whose family had lived in the area since before the Civil War. He didn’t convert and neither did she, although shortly after they married he brought her home to Sultan Yacoub for a year so that she could learn Syrian customs and cooking. “My grandmother smoked, drank liquor, bowled three nights a week—he couldn’t do anything with her,” Abraham says. “Mamaw ran the house.”

This grandfather used to get together with other Arabs in Logan and talk about the old country. When he died, he was buried by an imam. Abraham feels that, as a third-generation Arab-American, he has lost touch with his heritage, and he regrets this. But he does not regret the assimilation that caused that loss. “I’ve heard Mike Pence say that he is a Christian first,” he says. “Well, it seems to me that the Arab old-timers were Americans first.”

Abraham still has in his possession a pledge that his maternal grandfather signed when he was naturalized, many decades ago, in the Logan County Courthouse. It reads, in part, “It is my bona fide intention to renounce forever all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, and particularly to Mehmed V, Emperor of the Ottomans, of whom I am now a subject. . . . I am not an anarchist; I am not a polygamist nor a believer in the practice of polygamy; and it is my intention in good faith to become a citizen of the United States of America and to permanently reside therein.” Abraham had heard that some recent Muslim immigrants practiced Sharia law; he thought that they should just go home. “They don’t want to assimilate,” he says. “My grandfather swore to disavow the Ottoman Empire, and they should have to do that, too, if they want to be Americans. You should speak English, you should practice our laws, and if you don’t want to do that don’t come here! It’s O.K. if they want to practice their customs—I don’t want that to disappear. But we have a Constitution, and people should go by it.”

When Democrats talk about America, they celebrate its diversity, but when they talk about immigrants diversity is often left out. They say that immigrants are exactly like us: they work hard and love their families. No doubt, most immigrants do work hard and love their families, as do most other kinds of people, but such flattening platitudes suppress what is obviously true: that people from other parts of the world are different from some Americans, and so when they become part of America they bring change. Even people who don’t feel hostile toward foreigners and are repelled by racial malice sometimes wish that their country would stay the same, because they love it the way it is. To deny that any change is taking place is the sort of orthodoxy that pushes people toward Trump.

There are a lot of Trump signs in Logan, and there are a lot of signs touting Richard Ojeda. Ojeda, who teaches in a Junior R.O.T.C. program at a local high school, is running for state senate as a Democrat, but the fact that most people in Logan were voting for Trump made perfect sense to him. “If he does twenty per cent of what he promises, he’ll be a decent President,” he says, “and maybe he just will make America great again.”

Richard Ojeda thinks that maybe Trump “just will make America great again.”

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

Logan was currently a long way from greatness, in Ojeda’s opinion. The poorer hollers were crowded with ancient trailers, many with a “No Trespassing” or a “Private Property” sign on them. There was a lot of theft, because of drugs—in some parts of West Virginia, the prescription-drug-addiction epidemic was worse than anywhere else in the country. Ojeda often drove around the county to see what was going on, and everywhere he went there were wrecks of houses half-destroyed by fire or fallen in with age, overgrown with weeds and kudzu. Why didn’t the county tear them down? Even some of the homes that were lived in were surrounded by tires and piles of trash and toys, old machines, broken TVs. The garbage everywhere drove him crazy. He’d started a local charity with his brother-in-law, and they picked up as much trash as they could, but there was only so much a few people could do. Why didn’t the county’s code-enforcement officer fine people for dumping in their yards? What was he being paid for? If coal was dying, West Virginia needed a new industry, and tourism would be a good one, but how would the state ever attract tourists if the place looked like landfill? Who would come to kayak in West Virginia’s beautiful streams if every thirty feet there was a sewer pipe?

Ojeda loved his state with a furious passion, and seeing it go to hell made him so angry that he felt like fighting, which was why he decided to go into politics. He had spent the first twenty-four years of his adult life in the Army: he went to Korea, Honduras, Jordan, Iraq, Haiti, and Afghanistan; he jumped out of planes and blew stuff up and retired as a major. This experience was helpful, because politics in Logan could be a bloody business. A couple of days before the primary, a man bashed him in the face at a campaign event and then tried to run him over with his truck. Ojeda spent several days in the hospital recovering from facial fractures and posting photographs of his injuries on Facebook, and he won the primary by more than two thousand votes.

He became a Democrat when he was eighteen, because his parents told him they were Democrats and so he was, too. “Back when I was in high school, being a Republican was like cursing,” he says. “Republicans were greedy people who didn’t take care of the workingman.” When he came back from the Army, he decided that most of the politicians in southern West Virginia, who were almost all Democrats, were crooks who didn’t care about anything but lining their pockets, but he didn’t change his registration. This was partly out of sheer loyalty, but it was also a matter of tactics: in West Virginia, most people were registered Democrats, so if you wanted to run for local office it helped to belong to that party. But that didn’t mean that you voted Democratic at the national level.

West Virginia is now a red state, but until 2000 it was tenaciously blue. Logan County’s Democratic tradition was particularly strong: with the exception of the two Civil War-era elections and Al Smith, in 1928, in 2000 it had voted for every Democratic Presidential candidate since Andrew Jackson. It voted Democratic against the Whigs before the Civil War; it voted Southern Democratic against Lincoln (unlike the state as a whole, which seceded from Virginia in 1863, in order to remain in the Union, southern West Virginia was mostly for the Confederacy); and it voted Democratic for the New Deal and F.D.R.

Because of the reputation of the Trump voter, it can seem as though the state must have been Republican for decades, for reasons of culture and race, but this is not so. West Virginia is part of the Bible Belt, but it voted Democratic all through the nineties, at the height of the culture wars and the Christian Coalition, when abortion and gay rights, for instance, were far more alive as political issues than they are now. The state voted against Obama, but it wasn’t the prospect of a black President that turned it red: it began voting Republican with George W. Bush, and in 2008 Boone and McDowell Counties, just north and south of Logan, along with some counties farther north, went for Obama. Probably the main reason for the shift in 2000 was that West Virginia perceived, correctly, that Al Gore’s environmental commitments would be bad for coal.

Now, too, a lot of Trump’s support in West Virginia is due to the local economy. Some months ago, Clinton said, “I’m the only candidate who has a policy about how to bring economic opportunity using clean renewable energy as the key into coal country, because we’re going to put a lot of coal miners and coal companies out of business.” All most people heard, in a clip that circulated endlessly on social media, was the part about putting a lot of coal miners out of business, and that was the end of her candidacy in the state. Trump appeared at rallies wearing a hard hat and saying he was going to put miners back to work, and, even to people who knew that coal was being put out of business by natural gas more than by Obama’s E.P.A. regulations, the choice seemed clear.

But coal is not the whole story. Ojeda, like Abraham, was voting for Trump in part because of immigration, and he, too, says that the appeal of Trump’s position is not about race. Ojeda’s father’s family comes from Jalisco, on the Pacific coast of Mexico. “My grandfather was one of the original wetbacks that swam across the Rio Grande,” Ojeda says. “He tended Pancho Villa’s horses when he was thirteen years old.” Ojeda’s father was born in West Virginia, but then the family moved back to Mexico and returned only when Ojeda’s father was eight. “He and his brothers and sisters couldn’t speak English very well, so they were made fun of,” Ojeda says. “But of course that made ’em tough. They were known as pretty good little scrappers.”

Trump’s promise to put America first was appealing to Ojeda because he felt it was the first time in a long while that a national politician had actually seemed to care about his state, and not because poverty was bad and poor people needed help but because West Virginia was part of America. “When you hear about illegal aliens getting benefits and you have people here starving to death and can’t get nothing, it’s just a slap in the face,” he says. “When you start talking about bringing in refugees and when they get here they get medical and dental and they get set up with some funds—what do we get? So when people hear Donald Trump saying we’re going to take benefits away from people who come here illegally and give them to people who work, that sounds pretty good.”

Trump seemed to Ojeda to treat West Virginia like family, and he had noticed that many West Virginians in return treated Trump like family, brushing off the things he said that sounded nuts or that they didn’t agree with. “In Iraq, I listened to David Petraeus speak every day about how we had to rebuild Iraq’s oil infrastructure and protect it,” Ojeda says. “But, if we’re going to go trillions of dollars in debt over Iraq, why can’t we go billions of dollars in debt and make every single coal-producing plant clean in West Virginia? Don’t we deserve a hand? We built this country with the steel that came out of our coal, and we protected this country with our soldiers, and nobody cares. We’re more willing to give millions of dollars to people in other countries who’d just as soon put a bullet in the back of our heads. That’s why West Virginia is going to vote for Trump.”

Reggie Jones is the director of PRIDE Community Services, a large nonprofit focussed on alleviating poverty in Logan County. He went to Head Start at PRIDE when he was a child.

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

West Virginians are always saying two things about themselves—that they love their state and that they are family oriented. “We’re very proud, although there’s not a whole lot to be proud of,” Raamie Barker, a former adviser to the governor who now teaches high school with Ojeda, says. “There’s really not. But we won’t let anybody put West Virginia down.” This may sound pretty hackneyed, but in fact what West Virginians mean by love of state and family is unusual and particular. “I’ve lived in a lot of places, and I’ve never seen this kind of pride and love,” Ed Martin, the publisher of the Logan Banner, says. “People will say, I love West Virginia. Nobody has ever said anything like that to me anywhere else. It just doesn’t come up. People may love where they live, but it’s not because they love their state. And here ‘family oriented’ is not just your family—it’s your family as a West Virginian.” Martin grew up in northern West Virginia and moved to the Logan area a year ago. He didn’t know a soul in town, but he found that, because he was from the state, he was immediately trusted and taken in. “Everybody here is family,” he says. “It’s hard to explain. I was here a week and they found out about my bad hips, and this church across the street—I don’t even know the name of the church, and nobody who works for me goes there, but they were praying for me.”

“Families are really close,” Kyle Lovern, a columnist at another local paper, says. “But your family—it isn’t necessarily your blood kin, it’s your neighborhood and your community. If someone’s house burns down, people will raise money and help them out, even if they’re struggling themselves. There really isn’t a difference between helping your cousin or your uncle and the person who lives next door.” In West Virginia, in other words, family can mean something like the opposite of what it means in other places.

This extended-family feeling exists in part because many people in West Virginia have known the people who live near them all their lives, and their parents knew one another, and their grandparents. “I would say a majority of people here can trace their family roots here back a hundred and fifty years,” Jay Nunley says. “Nobody chooses to move here. Everyone here my age, I grew up with.” In high school, Nunley and Ojeda were in drumline together and used to party afterward. Now Nunley hosts a talk show on WVOW, Logan’s radio station; he came back to town a few years ago after working in radio all over the country. “I loved Chicago, loved Charlotte,” he says. “I did not like Canton, Ohio—if you ask me, that’s the biggest shithole in the country, not Logan. I liked Tallahassee and I liked Corpus Christi. But I never felt that I was standing on my ground except for right here. The people who stay here, even though they could have it so much better economically elsewhere, it’s because of a connection to the ground itself.”

Many people talk about a connection to the ground itself. West Virginia doesn’t look quite like any other place—hardly any flat land, because the densely wooded hills are crushed so close together there’s barely room for a road between them—and its confining closeness forms a kind of physical bond between people who find it familiar. “When I’m in California, I feel like something bad’s going to happen, because there’s so much empty space,” Ed Martin says. “Here it’s cozy. If you believe the mountains are yours, like most West Virginians do, when you get back to these mountains you feel comfortable again. You feel at ease.” “When I see the mountains,” Kyle Lovern says, “it’s like they’re embracing me.”

Lovern has lived in southern West Virginia all his life. He voted for Obama in 2008. He thought the election of the first black President was an important historical event, and was happy to have been part of it. But he thought that Clinton was likely to continue Obama’s coal regulations, and he didn’t think West Virginia could survive four more years of that, so he was voting for Trump. “Some people say they’re glad Trump’s going to build a wall,” he says. “They feel that charity begins at home. That there’s people here that are suffering, that we need to take care of our own rather than welcome all these other people in and put them on the welfare system and give them free health care. Most people here agree with that.”

The sense of family that people talk about in Logan is complicated, because, like most family feeling, it tends to intensify not only the bonds between people who are counted as part of the family but also the hostility toward people who are not. Reggie Jones was born and raised in Logan. He has known Nunley and Ojeda since they were kids—he graduated from Logan High School a year ahead of them, in 1987. He is now the director of PRIDE Community Services, a large local nonprofit focussed on alleviating poverty. He went to Head Start at PRIDE himself when he was little.

His father worked on the railroad—he started out as a brakeman and ended up driving coal trains. Jones left Logan after high school to go to West Virginia University, in Morgantown, in the northern part of the state. He initially planned to be a computer programmer, but his parents had taught him to be community-minded, and he ended up getting a master’s degree in social work. He lived in Columbus, Ohio, for a while, working for Goodwill, and in New Jersey working in foster care, but he missed home, so when a position came up at PRIDE he jumped at it. His parents were surprised that he came back. Even he was surprised—after high school, he wanted to run far away and stay away forever. “Logan for me is like being in a toxic relationship,” he says. “It has problems and I know it, but I still love it and want it to be the best that it can be.”

In Logan, when he was growing up, he was one of only a couple of African-Americans in his elementary school. People were always touching his hair. In second grade, the teacher told the kids to draw pictures of their families, so he drew his family and colored their skin brown. The teacher sent him home with a note that said she felt he needed to meet with the school psychologist, because something must be wrong if he drew his family that way. His parents told the principal that he drew his family with brown skin because they had brown skin. Maybe it was the teacher who needed to see a psychologist. That was when he realized he was different.

When he was in fifth grade, he rode the school bus almost to the end of the line. “The older black kids from high school would argue and fight with the older white kids,” he says. “And, as the bus stops went along, it always ended up that I was the last black kid on the bus. There was one guy in particular who was the white-kid ringleader, and he would just say these nasty, racially derogatory things to the older black kids. But when I was the only black kid on the bus I became his buddy, and he would say things to me like ‘You’re O.K., you’re not like those other ones.’ Whereas in fact I was just terrified to open my mouth. He took me under his wing for the rest of the ride and told the other kids, ‘Nobody say anything to this kid, this is my buddy.’ He did this every day.”

Until he was twelve, his family lived in a holler where white kids played with black kids because they were so isolated they barely knew the difference. Then, when he was in sixth grade, his family moved to a nicer house in a part of Logan where only white people lived. The summer they bought the house, his father and his uncle spent weeks painting it, and one day they drove up and saw “KKK” sprayed in big black letters on the front. The house was set on fire twice before his family moved in, and then after they moved in there were two shootings—someone drove by with a high-powered rifle and shot seven or eight times into the house. In his new bedroom, he could lie on the bed and reach up and touch one of the bullet holes. Sometimes his father and his uncle sat in their cars across the street, keeping watch, holding guns. “I remember very vividly several nights that they were out there,” he says. “I don’t know if there was talk in the community that said you might want to watch out tonight. But it sticks in my mind, looking out of my bedroom window and seeing a car parked across my driveway protecting me from the people who didn’t want us there.”

After the second shooting, he begged his father to let him stay with his grandmother. “My dad said, ‘Yes, you can go, but I need you to listen to what I’m telling you: you can go if you just want to go. But if you’re going because you’re afraid I’m not going to let you. Because if you run from this now you’re going to be running from it for the rest of your life.’ My parents’ position was ‘We have as much right to be here as anyone. We purchased this house. You’re not going to run us out.’ ” One man eventually went to jail for the shootings, but nobody thought he’d done it alone.

Everywhere you go in West Virginia, there are wrecks of houses half-destroyed by fire or fallen in with age, overgrown with weeds and surrounded by trash.

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

A man who lived up the street had two sons, and he was always calling Jones and one of his brothers over to box with his boys. His sons would lose, and he hated that, and the sons hated it, too; they didn’t want to box, but he kept summoning Jones and his brother and making them fight. They didn’t know why. For a while, Jones and his brothers played, unaware, with the kids of the man who had gone to jail for shooting at them. Once they all realized this, they started fighting. But then sometimes they would play one day and fight the next and the next day they would play again.

When Reggie Jones moved back to Logan, the town was far worse off than it had been when he was growing up. In the nineteen-seventies, the mines were booming and Logan was flush. Miners could make a lot of money—ninety thousand a year in recent times, a hundred thousand, maybe more. When coal took a dip, people figured they’d just draw unemployment until it picked up again. But now there were people coming into PRIDE he would never have seen in the past.

In other respects, the town hadn’t changed much. “Logan is a place that race is always bubbling just below the surface,” he says. “Every few years, there is some sort of fight that escalates at the high school that seems to be racially motivated. Everyone seems to be afraid to talk about race until something happens. People talk about it for a while and then it goes away and bubbles under the surface until something else blows up.” Logan’s devotion to Trump depressed him. “In his two elections, President Obama didn’t do well here, and people said some very nasty things.” He sighed. “A lot of what Donald Trump is saying, people think it and they don’t want to say it. His remarks about Hispanics. Certain remarks about immigration. There are people here who support building a wall. My concern is, you’re building a wall now to keep Hispanics out; at what point do we put African-Americans on the other side of the wall?”

In spite of everything, though, he had come back. In some ineradicable, unkillable way, this was where he belonged. It meant a lot to him to work at PRIDE, and give back to the same Head Start program that had helped him when he was a kid. “I feel rooted here in Logan,” he says. “I can walk downstairs to our senior center and I see seniors I’ve known since I was six years old. If I go downtown, I’m guaranteed to see five or six people I know, and most of the time I’ll stop and chat for a few minutes and then be on my way. In times of crisis, the community pulls together and we support each other. Maybe that’s what locks me in here. My dad always taught us to value where you live. Even if it’s not the greatest place, take pride in it and make it the best that it can be.”

But he drew the line at raising his children in Logan. He and his family live in Charleston, the state capital, and he drives two hours each day going back and forth. Why doesn’t he work in Charleston, then, where there is plenty of poverty also, and a lot to do? “Logan is home,” he says. “Those racial things—I’m not saying that everybody in Logan subscribes to those thoughts. Some of my best experiences have been growing up here in Logan County with the friends that I had. But, like I said, it’s kind of like a toxic relationship. I find it hard to let go.”

Rick Abraham, a third-generation Arab-American, shown at the mine-safety company he founded, with his collection of old conservative campaign yard signs.

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

A sense of home as strong as this is at the heart of much of the wariness about immigration. And although Obama’s and Clinton’s immigration policies are pretty similar, the way they talk about the subject is quite different. In a speech at the end of last year, Clinton suggested that wariness of immigrants was a sign of bad character. “We shouldn’t let anybody on the public stage say that we are mean-spirited,” she said, “that we are going to build walls, mentally and physically, or that we are going to shut doors.” She described immigration as a matter of universal human rights. “The fight to insure that America’s immigrants are treated with dignity,” she said, is “bound up with all the other fights to advance human dignity and human rights, the fight to defend workers’ rights, to end poverty, reduce economic inequality, the fight for women’s rights, L.G.B.T. rights and human rights here and abroad. Ultimate struggles come down to the same fundamental question: Whose humanity will we recognize?” The right answer, she said, is: “Everyone’s.”

When Obama gave a speech on immigration in the fall of 2014, he spoke first about America’s border—how he had secured it, and how illegal crossings had been cut by more than half. When he spoke about people who opposed his policies, he said he understood them. “Millions of us, myself included, go back generations in this country, with ancestors who put in the painstaking work to become citizens,” he said. “So we don’t like the notion that anyone might get a free pass to American citizenship. I know some worry immigration will change the very fabric of who we are, or take our jobs. . . . I hear these concerns. . . . And I believe it’s important that all of us have this debate without impugning each other’s character.”

Of course, Obama doesn’t have to prove his anti-racist bona fides in the same way that Clinton does. But it is also Obama’s style to talk like this. He likes to reconcile, to draw people in, to minimize the differences between them. Clinton, on the other hand, always describes herself as a fighter, and it is her style to draw sharp lines between right and wrong—between people who are being oppressed and the people doing the oppressing. This style can make it sound as though she thinks people who disagree with her on immigration are probably racists.

When Clinton talks about her family and her childhood, she describes a sense of deep rootedness in mainstream America. Obama, with his complicated background, doesn’t take roots for granted. In his first book, he describes learning that his father had ruined his life in part because he dismissed the ties of family and tribe as unimportant. What Obama’s father never understood, Obama’s aunt told him, was that “if everyone is family, no one is family.” Perhaps this is why Obama makes a point of saying that he understands that the desire for borders is not always, or only, racism but also a desire to belong to a group of people that is smaller and less cosmic than all mankind: in other words, to have a home. Clinton’s America, the nation that welcomes everyone from everywhere, can sound abstract: more of a political idea or a moral position than a physical place—bloodless, in ways both good and bad. And, if there seems to be no middle ground between an America-first xenophobia and a universalist abstraction, people for whom citizenship feels thicker than an idea—and there are many of them—may find the America-first xenophobia more familiar, and more attractive.

Belonging to a place, knowing and loving it deeply, means more to Brandon Kirk than almost anything else. Kirk is a history professor, a colleague of Charles Keeney’s at Southern West Virginia Community and Technical College. He lives where he was born and raised, in a little place called Harts, twenty miles north of the town of Logan. When he finished high school, in 1990, his plan was to find another place to be. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with Harts, he just thought that he might fit in better somewhere else—he didn’t hunt or fish or do most of the things that young people he knew did. So after high school he didn’t go to the local community college; he went to Marshall University, in Huntington, forty-five miles away. That was far enough.

Brandon Kirk is a history professor at Southern West Virginia Community and Technical College who specializes in Appalachia and thinks that Trump’s protectionism is worth trying.

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

He studied history, and specialized in Appalachia. He got interested in his family history, then in the history of Harts and Logan County, then in that of southern West Virginia. He began to visit old people who lived nearby and asked them to tell him their family stories, and found a kind of history that he couldn’t find anywhere else, because it wasn’t written. “It’s like Alex Haley said, in his book ‘Roots,’ which is one of my favorite books—he learned a lot sitting on his grandmother’s porch, listening to her stories,” he says. “I get that completely.”

Loyalty as such is at the core of who he is. And yet, although his family has been Republican for generations, he is considering changing his registration to independent. “I’m really not sure where the national party’s at,” he says. “I’m comfortable with conservative values, but I’m not a Bible-thumping person.” During the primary season, he discussed the Republican debates with his parents. None of them liked Trump at first. “My mother liked Carson,” he says. “She liked that he was such a gentle sort of person, and we respect his education and his accomplishments as a surgeon. We read his book, at least one of them, and saw the movie about him. I liked Carson, but in the end I thought Kasich was better on government policy. He was more wonkish, which bored a lot of people.”

Kirk is not the only one considering changing his party in Logan these days. All sorts of people are rethinking their political identities after many generations. Deep ties are coming loose, and new ones are forming—new ties that are likely to last a long time into the future. Recently, Kirk was sitting in the Logan County Clerk’s office reading through some archives, when he heard a man come in and ask to change his registration to independent. When the man gave his last name, Kirk knew his family history right away—he knew that the man’s family had voted Democratic since the eighteen-thirties.

Despite his reservations, Kirk is voting for Trump. Like everyone in West Virginia, he is distressed by the poverty he sees, and he thinks Trump’s protectionism is worth trying. He also likes the wall. “That may be crazy,” he says, “but I’m a big Teddy Roosevelt fan, and I think Trump’s bluster is very T.R., though Trump is no T.R. But, you know, Roosevelt had the Panama Canal. You’ve got to have something big you build—it means something, there’s a grandness to it. And I think it could do a lot of good. I think it would deter illegal immigration, I think it surely would help with the illegal drug trade. I think of it in a commonsense way: we have our homes, and we have locks on our doors. If we have a gathering and some people show up that we don’t know, that’s O.K., but if too many people are coming into our house and eating our food and we don’t know who they are, and maybe some of them are causing problems, I think a wall would help with control. When I was young, I thought more idealistic. I thought, It’s America, welcome. And I don’t have anything against people coming in as far as their ethnic differences and cultural differences—I respect anyone who works. It’s just a matter of controlling that flow and going through the right procedure. I just think that makes sense.”

He knows that there is a phenomenon called the “angry white male” and that many people believe that these angry males are Trump’s core supporters. He doesn’t feel angry, though. He sees the country changing, and wonders where it’s headed. “For me as a historian, it’s the heritage,” he says. “I like borders, whether it’s a country or a locality. You’re open to diversity, you welcome people, but you don’t want to give up everything you are. And that can happen. History teaches that mass migrations of people, they caused great stress for the Roman Empire, maybe caused it to collapse.”

If coal is dying, West Virginia needs a new industry. Tourism would be a good one, but can downtown Logan, pictured here, attract tourists?

Photograph by Alec Soth / Magnum for The New Yorker

Most of Kirk’s ancestors were people of English stock who migrated into what is now Logan County from somewhere near Roanoke in the early eighteen-hundreds. Several of his ancestors fought for the Confederacy. His favorite period is that of the timber industry in Logan County, after the Civil War but before the railroad came, in 1904, and the coal industry really got going. There was very little in Logan at the beginning of this period, he says: no newspapers, no churches, just a couple of general stores. Most people were subsistence farmers: there wasn’t enough flat land to grow a cash crop, but they farmed the slopes. After the Civil War, people sent timber down the Guyandotte River on rafts to Huntington, which put a bit of cash into the economy, and push boats came upriver with goods. The push boats went as far as Logan, and that’s how the town got started—as a trading post. Even though it was a long time ago, this period feels familiar to him. He hopes that writing about that time before coal will reveal something useful for his people in a future after coal, although he doesn’t know what.

What he wants to do in his life is preserve the stories and artifacts of his birthplace and, through teaching and tourism, pass them on to other people. He also hopes that tourists will bring a little money into the area. Tourism isn’t coal, but it’s better than nothing. In 2012, the History Channel ran a miniseries about the notorious Hatfield-McCoy feud, with Kevin Costner starring as William Anderson (Devil Anse) Hatfield, and after that people came to Logan County from all over the place wearing Hatfield-McCoy T-shirts and climbing up the side of a mountain to see Devil Anse’s grave. Kirk’s students generally aren’t very interested in their heritage, however, so he soldiers on by himself. “I’m happy to retreat in my little place,” he says. “One cousin of mine that lives in Ohio, he’s a deacon, said there’s a monkish quality about what I do, because I don’t date, I’m celibate, I don’t really drink. I just devote time to teaching and researching and writing.

“Sometimes I’ll have a black student and I’ll get real excited because I don’t get very many,” he says. “I’ll ask them if they’re interested in their family history, if they know anything about it, because one of my research interests is antebellum slave life in this region. I want to know those stories, and I want to know about the black migrants that came here between the Civil War and coal. That’s not my story, but I want to know that story, it’s important history. I say let everybody have their markers, their memorials, their heritage, and celebrate all of it. There’s room for everybody.” Near where one of his ancestors was buried he found an old slave cemetery. He wants to draw attention to it, so that other people will visit it, too.

When he left for college, he hadn’t planned to come back to the area, but he did. “The old people, the ones that I started to visit with when I was young, are the ones that pulled me back,” he says. “They’re all dead now. I miss those old people so bad. They were such solid people. They were kind. And they had been through the Depression and the world war—they had a lot of shared experiences that people today don’t have.” When he thinks about his home and why it matters to him, it is shared experiences that he thinks about—the shared experience, good and bad, of people whose ancestors came from many countries under very different circumstances, but whose families have now lived together for a long time in one place. He wants to feel this sense of home about America, too—a sense that we’re all in this together. “Those old people pulled me back, and then they died on me, and so here I am and they’re all gone,” he says. “I think about them a lot. Their memories stretched back to the late eighteen-hundreds, to their grandparents, sometimes their great-grandparents, and so I also feel connected to those people they spoke about.”

After the old people died, he visited their graves, and he also visited the graves of the grandparents and the great-grandparents they had described to him. Some of these older graves were in small family cemeteries that were brambly and overgrown, because the people there had died so long ago that nobody remembered them, or if anyone did they were too old to climb up the mountain anymore. Many of those buried didn’t have proper headstones, only rocks with initials carved in them. He felt that the least he could do for the people whose stories meant so much to him was to care for their graves, so some days he would take tools and hike up to one of the half-hidden cemeteries and cut back the grass and the weeds, and straighten a headstone if there was one and it had fallen over, and leave flowers on the mounds. He liked doing it. It was peaceful there. ♦

This article appears in the print edition of the October 10, 2016, issue, with the headline “Trumptown.”

Larissa MacFarquhar, a staﬀ writer and the author of “Strangers Drowning,” is an Emerson Fellow at New America.